


offering

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Body Worship, Emperor Armitage Hux, Enforcer Kylo Ren, Hurt/Comfort, Licking, M/M, Minor Injuries, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Kylo returns to his emperor, marred with injuries from his latest mission. Hux knows just what to do with them.





	offering

**Author's Note:**

> My boyfriend brought up the (alleged?) drinking of gladiator blood directly from the wounds in ancient Roman times while we were watching a video, and I just couldn't stop thinking about Emperor Hux doing something similar to Kylo, only a little more intimate! Kind of weird but....well, I thought it was interesting?

Hux stands on the balcony adjoining his room, enjoying the cool breeze coming in from the distant plains. This high up, in the loftiest chambers of the imperial palace, Hux hears little more than silence, at most the rustle of the natural world interwoven with his own steady breathing. It’s soothing, sure, but as the evening wears on, Hux finds himself growing more than a little bit lonesome.

Thankfully, it looks like he won’t have to wait for much longer.

The glowing red of the sunset bleeds bright through the clouds near the horizon, flickering as the familiar shadow of Ren’s ship descends through it. Hux watches it skim down to the surface of the planet, silent even as it finally disappears below the palace ramparts.

It’s a magnificent fighter. Crafted by both their hands, emblazoned with the symbol of Hux’s new empire. The first bit of new technology created within the reforged Order. The streak of black and red, the harbinger of death that casts over all remaining resistance within the galaxy. The deadly vessel of the Jedi Killer, now Armitage Hux’s prized Enforcer.

The silky hem of his evening robe flutters around his bare feet as he retreats back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Hux opens his mouth, ready to command the lights on, but there’s still enough sun filtering in through the windows, so he closes it.

He closes his eyes momentarily, imagining the floor plan of his palace. He knows it by heart already, having designed it from the ground-up himself and overseen all aspects of its construction. He knows how much time it’ll take to get from the private hanger, up the elevators and through the hallways to the pinnacle, where he stands now—waiting.

 _Soon_ _enough._

Hux’s heart twitches when he finally hears the distant chirp of his quarters’ front entrance, and he opens his eyes. There’s only a handful of people who know the access code, and only one allowed inside without prior authorization from the emperor himself.

Hux stands expectantly in the middle of his bedroom, watching the door, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps grow louder as they trace a well-worn path to the bedroom. The door clicks, lock undone by invisible touch, and swings open.

Ren’s ragged, indelicate appearance is a sharp contrast to the clean elegance of Hux’s bedroom, his straggly hair and heavy, rippling cloak a blot against the crisp cream of the walls and over-designed carpeting. Like someone had reached into the fabric of reality and ripped it out, leaving a spot of rich, alluring void behind.

“I hoped you would come before night fell.” Hux extends his hand, presenting his bared knuckles to his enforcer. “I will debrief you about your mission later.”

It’s an archaic gesture, but one he’s begun to enjoy nonetheless. But _only_ with Ren. He wouldn’t want anyone else’s mouth touching him, even chastely. His eyelids fall half-closed as Ren bends forward and dips his head, dark curls unfurling from around his shoulders as he brushes his lips over the back of the emperor’s hand.

Hux skillfully tucks his fingers beneath Ren’s chin after the kiss, lifting his head back up until he resumes his full height. They’re standing closer together now, drawn by that first, modest contact. Hux strokes his thumb over the jut of Ren’s chin, feeling the slight speckling of stubble. He nibbles the inside of his lip, considering a proper kiss.

 _Not yet_.

“Come. Sit.” Hux fingers trail away from Ren’s face as he goes ahead to the bed, settling down on the edge and waiting for his enforcer to follow. The slight, pained stiffness to Ren’s gait doesn’t escape Hux’s notice as he watches him amble over, a clear tell of the toll of his mission. When Ren sits on the soft coverlet a look of relief crosses his face, as if he’s happy to be finally off of his feet, finally in a place of safety. Hux can’t blame him. He’s come to understand the value of this time too, spent in the innermost sanctum of the palace—the only truly intimate, secluded refuge for the emperor and his trusted knight.

“You are injured,” Hux states, though he knew it before Ren even entered the bedroom, and reaches out to rest the back of his hand against his chest. He sees dark, spreading spots all over Ren’s torso, even through the thick fabric of his clothing, and fixates upon them.

Hux can’t wait any longer, not when he knows what must await him beneath Ren’s tunic. He lifts his hand, trailing his fingertips down the side of his enforcer’s cheek, angling down his jawline and coming to rest at his neck, right where the black collar wraps around his throat. Hux feels him swallow.

“Your clothes,” he whispers.

Ren obeys without a word, familiar with the routine, leaving Hux to lean back and watch as he unclips his belt first then moves onto the fasteners of his tunic. He opens and shrugs it off of his shoulders, letting it crumple back against the bed along with his cloak. Underneath he wears only a thin black undershirt, shorn off at the ribs and plastered against his skin with sweat and glistening patches of blood. That too quickly follows the others, and before long Ren sits completely pale and bare from the waist up.

“Better, my emperor?” He says, leaning back on his hands to allow better appreciation of his torso. His broad chest fluctuates with his breathing, gradually, as if meaning to hypnotize.

Hux bites his lower lip, feeling a light perspiration form beneath his robes. Does Ren understand how alluring he is like this? He’s always had confidence in his abilities, both physical and abstract, but does he know how much Hux appreciates the moments where he can just let himself savor his enforcer in his fully denuded glory? A small, tempted smile perks at Hux’s lips as he peruses the well-loved territory, the curves of muscles and reserved strength that still captivates him, even after so long.

“Much better.”

Some might not appreciate Ren’s unconventional beauty the way Hux does. He’s broad and well-shaped but marked with imperfections and uneven contours that Hux finds more pleasant than detracting. Scars map all over Ren’s body, as if guiding his eyes from one point to the next. Hux doesn’t know the story behind all of them, but he was present for a decent share of them. He remembers when they yawned fresh and wide, some superficial, some not. One in particular, near fatal, but not exactly because of the wound itself. Because Hux had almost not arrived in time.

Even those catastrophic failures and near-miseries seem distant now. Becoming emperor has changed everything, including his relationship with Ren.

 _Kylo_ , he corrects. It’s Kylo now. He’s been asked for this token of familiarity, and he’s trying.

The old scars still hold some allure for Hux, but they consume less of it than the fresh wounds littering across his enforcer’s skin. There’s not as many of them as last time, when Kylo had forged through the thorny swamps of Achyria in pursuit of the last of some local insurgents, but there’s one in particular across the left pectoral, cutting in a slight curve above his dark nipple. Hux feels a tingling in his belly at the sight, his heartbeat picking up.

Kylo smells of war—of sweat, of blood. Hux brings his nose in close and inhales deeply and it brings him to the battlefield where Kylo had waged his emperor’s will against all resistance. He can envision the stricken corpses, the fervent whites in the eyes of his enemies as one of them, the _last,_  manages to strike out just once with a blue vibroblade, before Kylo splits his head from his shoulders. It’s a vibrant image, as if simple proximity with Kylo allows his memories to leach into Hux’s mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, lifting his hand to touch the flesh around the wound as Kylo softly shrugs his shoulders. His fingers trace the edges of the blood dried and dappled like blotches of paint, like those comprising the official portraits that hang in the throne room. Light smears of red, almost pink, gradually deepening towards the cut in Kylo’s skin, where the blood still glistens, welling and _molten_ with his enforcer’s persistent life. Despite this, Hux can already tell it’s fairly shallow, a glancing blow at best. Medics will be able to fix it, and the rest of Kylo’s injuries, in moments.

But Hux must tend to them first.

He splays his fingers against Kylo’s unsullied pectoral as he cranes his neck and leans in. He can practically hear his enforcer’s heartbeat quicken in response as he breathes upon the ragged edges of the wound, drawing the fluttering scraps of skin towards his lips.

He’s so close. Right now, he can smell Kylo even more acutely—the weariness that’s dried against his skin, the stain and odor sunk into the smooth hollows of his body. Hux used to hate this scent of exertion and grime, wrinkled his nose at its naked humanity, but now he’s grown attached to it— _craving_ it. Just as he craves the scent of blood, the sight of it oozing in fat beads as he lightly pinches the skin around the wound, breaking the tenuous scabbing. Kylo’s chest twitches, nipples stiff. Hux’s mouth waters.

He’s become weak to such grisly pleasures.

As the sunlight dies outside it bathes the room in a fiery red, as if every wall and furnishing is alight. It won’t last, with the night swiftly oncoming, but Hux feels unhurried by it as he presses his tongue flat against Kylo’s chest. He can feel his heartbeat, the way it picks up as caresses closer to the edge of the wound, tasting right when the normal salt of Kylo’s skin turns metallic and primal. Hux lets out a small moan as the tip of his tongue strokes at the ragged edges of the wound, lapping the droplets of blood now trickling out of it.

Kylo flinches as Hux touches the sensitive, barely-healing flesh, but he doesn’t pull back or shove the emperor away. He knows better than to deny Hux this pleasure, as debauched as it is. If he thinks it sick or disconcerting, he’s never made that known.

Perhaps he believes Hux literally licking his wounds might actually _help_ them, after all he’s heard scientific evidence in animals of saliva expediting healing—but there’s no sense pretending he’s doing this out of benevolence.

It’s so much more sordid.  

Hux vaguely remembers how it all started. Not long after his coronation, his tenuous grasp on ultimate power finally starting to consolidate. The wound, fresh on Kylo’s palm, incurred from a unexpected encounter with the polearm of a clumsy ceremonial guard. A tease had come to the brim of Hux’s lips, only to perish as he looked down into the red splashed over his enforcer’s hand. It had spilled in little capillaries, spreading outwards along the channels in his skin. The urge had come suddenly and taken Hux by surprise, and before he could stop himself he had brought Kylo’s palm up to his lips and lapped the shedding blood directly from the font. The rest of the memory, including his enforcer’s reaction, is a little bit foggy, but he recalls clearly the pleasure he felt as he licked the injury.

But in all truth Hux likes the chest wounds best, not that he _wants_ Kylo to suffer such close brushes with death if he can help it. But the blood is the warmest, the _sweetest_ —the drinking far more intimate—when it’s this near to Kylo’s heart. The very source of his power, pulsing warm elixir outwards for Hux to partake in. In fact, its brilliant color reminds him of Kylo’s lightsaber, that innermost essence bled out and ignited by his own intensity. Hux has seen that weapon in action many times, slicing and burning his enemies into corpses, moving like an extension of the man himself—his rage, his _passion_. It fills Hux with deep gratification, to feed off of Kylo in such a profoundly visceral way.

Still, part of him can’t help but feel like a savage dog, gnawing at a corpse in hollow desperation, or some kind of strange, _It Came from the Outer Rim!-_ style creature that drains the life from its victims in a most lurid fashion. Indeed, when Hux envisioned himself finally enthroned with all the power he deserved, he certainly didn’t anticipate engaging in such an obscene act, with _Kylo Ren_ no less. But the pleasure he gets from tasting the blood on his tongue supersedes all shame, all unfavorable comparisons. Ultimately, Hux is the _emperor_ , and secluded in his quarters away from meddlesome eyes no less. He can indulge in whatever sinful, strange things he desires, free from contempt.

It’s not like such a thing is _unheard_ of, either. In his perusal of galactic history, Hux had read Cilwellian legends that told of great warriors brought to clash against vicious beasts or one another in shows of combat for the entertainment of the higher clans—exalted both morally and physically above the bloodied combat yet fancying it all the same. He remembers some colorful details from these accounts, most notably one that described how the foremost elites had even invited the winning combatants back to their chambers, where they supped the blood from their open wounds. Evidently, Cilwelli believed such a ritual would imbue them with the same vigor that coursed through the veins of their most prized fighters.

Hux doesn’t know if that’s mere speculation, transcribed as fact in the holorecords. He’s fairly certain that even if there’s a grain of truth buried deep within, it might’ve become distorted through the aeons into something completely unrecognizable.

Not that it matters much what some long-dead clanspeople believed. Hux isn’t some kind of dim zealot— he rules an empire now, he hasn’t time to tolerate baseless superstitions. Yet he _does_ feel invigorated whenever he feeds upon Kylo’s blood, feels the throb of his powerful heart against his lips—so perhaps there’s some foundation to those silly legends.  

Hux’s robe falls off one shoulder as he drinks, exposing more of his own skin. He too, has scars, though they’re born of less valorous affairs than Kylo’s are, and thus he hates to draw attention to them, save for rare moments when his enforcer’s roughened hands trace over the thin, deliberate lines on his back and legs.

Hux sits up on his knees, pressing even closer to Kylo, his hands bracing against his firm shoulders as he leans more heavily against him. A tight moan hisses from between Kylo’s teeth as Hux chases the drips of blood that have eluded him, lapping them up from where they trickled and beaded down to the pebbly corona circling his enforcer’s nipple. Hux grows hungrier with each stroke of tongue, even as he cleans the injured flesh free of stains, even as his own milky robe sullies with smears of red. It’s so sweet, so _delicious_. So deeply satisfying.

Hux knows he should abhor these vicious wounds rather than enjoy them. After all, they’re realistically little more than acts of violence and failed retribution against his treasured knight. They should be far too crude and ugly for him to draw any beauty out of, but he’s come to view them more as marks of Kylo’s strength, his devotion to Hux. Through everything he’s always held firm, always taken these assaults onto his own body lest everything they’ve fought for crumbles in their hands, always slaughtered Hux’s enemies without quarter or hesitation no matter how desperately they try to cut him down. Fools, the lot of them, unwilling to accept a superior authority.

So they die. They die, and die, so that his empire, his _Kylo_ can live on.  So that Hux can feel the indulgent heat of his lifeblood on his tongue, dripping down his throat, stirring the cauldron of his belly.

He is so entranced with the taste of the blood it nearly escapes his notice when he leans too far forward and Kylo smooths his hands over his hips, cradling them as Hux pushes him back against the bed and straddles his stomach. The blood sticks to his lips in a grisly smear when he finally lifts his head, looking down upon the exhilarated face of his enforcer, ringed in a spill of black hair. Hux almost feels predatory—mouth dripping, eyes alight—but it’s tempered by the intimacy, the sanguine bond flowing between the two of them. Hux rests his elbows on either side of Kylo’s head, disheveled hair falling about his temples as the emperor leans over him.

“Are your wounds severe enough to require a medic?” He kisses the tip of Kylo’s nose, murmuring against it. “You know, I have bacta strips in the refresher.”

Hux hopes Kylo won’t go. He doesn’t want him to stray from his side, to tarry with the medics and their harsh antiseptics and mechanical touch. No one else but him deserves to tend to Kylo in a moment like this. Hux has dedicated his entire life in service to the Order, and now the galaxy—he’s earned a little _selfishness_ , he feels.

Besides, the taste of the wound has awakened other hungers, and Hux now wishes to get his tongue and teeth on more of his enforcer. To feel more than just his blood inside him.

“I can push through it, I think,” Kylo murmurs, turning his head to the side to brush their lips together. His pale cheeks flush, any pain in his expression chased away by his arousal. Hux can feel Kylo’s groin bulging with need, rubbing against his barely clothed behind. The bleeding in his chest wound has slowed to a trickle, blood apparently occupied somewhere else. Hux smirks, his own cock twitching against the sheer fabric of his robe.

“Good.” He seals their lips in a proper kiss, letting Kylo momentarily breach his mouth with tongue before pulling away, breathing eager. “Because I don’t want you leaving until I’ve savored every last inch of your body.”

Hux rubs his ass back against Kylo’s cock, working a whine out of his enforcer. They can take their time. After all, he has so much more left to savor.

**Author's Note:**

> Hux, you're weird. Go join the Kylo from the egg fic and think about what you've done. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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